


White. Silk. Underwear.

by PepperF



Series: Valentines [9]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-18
Updated: 2007-02-18
Packaged: 2017-12-09 20:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperF/pseuds/PepperF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'You've been staring at me the whole time. Did you really think I'd get flustered that easily?'</p>
            </blockquote>





	White. Silk. Underwear.

**Author's Note:**

> They wore Dress Blues for a briefing in the very first episode. I haven't checked when they stopped doing that – it was probably straight away - but for the convenience of this story, I'm pretending it went on for a little while. It's not important, I just... liked it that way.

Jack didn't 'do' gazing, so he wasn't gazing at Sam. But he would admit to... watching closely. If anyone asked, he was going to claim interest in a subordinate in whose well-being and development he had every right to be involved.

She was loading the magazine by hand, strength and grace in her long, slim fingers. Every movement was precise and swift. She looked... well, 'perfect' was the word that sprang immediately to mind – an odd, cold sort of perfection in her Dress Blues and flawless make-up, softened only by the fact that she'd undone the restrictive jacket. Jack kept meaning to speak to Hammond about relaxing the dress code for briefings, but then he'd see Sam dressed to the nines, and just... forget.

Aside from her obvious beauty, there was a lot he admired about the young captain. She was blindingly intelligent – he'd happily claim that his 2IC was smarter than anyone else on the base. Somehow, she also managed to be a damn good soldier, a fast and cunning fighter, and a marksman to rival him – and he had no false modesty about his own abilities. She would make a good Major someday soon – he'd already begun tentative discussions with Hammond about that, double-checking himself for scrupulous fairness all the way. He had no doubt she could and would progress further up that ladder, given time and some command experience. She was so very young. Much younger than him, which he refused to find depressing on the grounds that he had no legitimate reason to care about the difference in their ages.

He wasn't going to think about the illegitimate reasons.

Sam hefted the gun to her shoulder, sighting down the long barrel. She tilted her head slightly, squinted, slowed her breathing, and relaxed her stance, dropping her shoulders. She stilled, but didn't hold her breath. Squeezed the trigger.

The shot slammed out of the gun, the explosive force of the round rocking her back slightly, but she held position and refocused her aim, took a second shot, and then a third. Then, satisfied with what she saw, she lifted her head and lowered the weapon. Jack didn't need to look at the target to know she'd hit it exactly where she wanted. It was all there in her face.

"Are you trying to unnerve me?" she asked, without looking at him.

Jack blinked. "I'm sorry?"

She glanced at him, and her chin tilted up challengingly. "You've been staring at me the whole time. Did you really think I'd get flustered that easily?"

He noted the lack of her usual 'sir'. She was in a mood to tangle. He'd not experienced that often from her, subsumed as it was beneath her 'perfect officer' image – but lately she'd been allowing her inner fire to flare up in his presence, and – very occasionally – in his direction. She was more confident at showing that side of herself to her fellow scientists, but it was rare that she kicked against her military superiors. She was learning, he liked to think, from his attitude towards his own superiors. She was learning to take command.

"Everyone has their weak spots," was all he said, however.

"Well, being under scrutiny isn't one of mine." She nodded at the target, and he finally turned to look at it as she pressed the button that drew the paper closer. She took it down, and held it up to the light.

"Apparently not," he said, admiringly. Three shots, neatly grouped at the centre of the target. Sam Carter was always a perfectionist. He gave her a sideways glance. Strong, intelligent, beautiful... lethal.

Yowza.

Okay, this was way too dangerous to be thinking. He took up his own gun, trying to focus on something neutral: the target ahead.

"What about you?" she asked.

"Hmm?"

"What's your Achilles' Heel?"

He allowed himself a brief, humorless smile. He'd been famed, at the Academy, for not allowing anything to distract him from his mission, his target. Loud noises, insults, touching – anything his fellow students had thought of, he'd tuned out. "That's for me to know, Captain," he said. He glanced at her, and saw to his discomfort that she'd narrowed her eyes, and was regarding him with all the cold thoughtfulness she gave to a new piece of alien technology.

He really, really hoped she never turned to the Dark Side. They'd all be doomed.

She leaned back casually against the wall, and crossed her legs at the ankle. Involuntarily, his eyes drifted down to those long legs, visible under her Dress Blues skirt. Hose? Dear god, perhaps there was a _garter_... He dragged his inappropriate gaze up quickly, and realized he'd been caught. For a second, he wondered if she was going to kick his ass. Then she gave him an almost-smile, her eyes glinting devilishly.

"Bet I can distract you."

Jack tipped an eyebrow at her. "Mom always told me not to let pride make my promises," he told her. She smiled briefly, and stayed silent.

He wasn't an insecure man. He had a lifetime of training and of experience to call upon, and he'd always been naturally confident – "independent and self-assured," his school reports had read, meaning "we can't get him to do a damn thing he doesn't want to do." But there was something about that silent, steady regard that worried him.

A big part of him was hoping she planned to play dirty.

"Three rounds," she said at last. "In the centre circle. If you lose..." She trailed off, contemplating possible punishments. It was damn sexy.

"I'll cook you dinner." Apparently, the part of his brain that did care about things like the difference in their ages had temporarily gained control of his tongue. "Tonight." And it wasn't letting go. Fortunately, it hadn't come out with some of the more... wildly inappropriate ideas for forfeits that had flashed luridly across his inner movie screen. It seemed he hadn't quite lost his last shreds of common sense where she was concerned.

Yet, anyway.

She looked surprised, but she'd never backed down from a dare, to his sure and certain knowledge. "Okay," she said. "And if you win, I'll cook you dinner."

"If I _win_?"

Her eyes flashed – in the metaphorical, not the Goa'uld, sense. "I can cook _some_ things," she said, irritably. "I make a mean soufflé." At his look, she shrugged. "It was a challenge," she explained, succinctly.

He looked at her, carefully concealing his surprise. She was definitely more relaxed around him these days – noticeably so. Ever since the cake incident on Argos, in fact. He'd expected the opposite: he'd thought, as he struggled with the returning memories and the godawful post-drug hangover, that his clearly unprofessional attitude and conduct towards her would have been too much, and sent her running in the opposite direction. He had been under the influence of an aphrodisiac, of course, and that was as good an excuse as any to ignore anything he'd said or done - but it wasn't like he'd been trying to kiss Teal'c, or Daniel, or whatsername, the girl he'd accidentally married.

But she most definitely had not run. Somehow, his enforced loss of inhibitions and consequent behavior had upped the ante. She no longer just looked through her eyelashes, concealed smiles at his lame-ass jokes, and sat next to him at any given opportunity (don't think he hadn't noticed). Oh, no. She was still meticulously careful – they both were – around other SGC personnel, but when they were out of range of military eyes and cameras, on missions or off-base, she'd started seriously flirting with him. And, god help him, he loved it. Agreeing to have dinner, alone, just the two of them, at one of their houses, though... Well.

They had come to a silent agreement to keep it relatively toned-down around Teal'c and Daniel, but it was an open secret on the team. There was a certain amount of 'Well, I'm going to go looking at those rocks/hieroglyphs/artifacts/ancient whatevers - Teal'c, you coming?' going on. Although it was meant in the kindest way, it was the one aspect of this situation that made Jack uneasy. He'd resolved to deal with it as soon as possible – he didn't want the team to suffer, or – god forbid – be endangered by this... whatever it was called.

He was staring, he realized. And she was looking smug. She so thought she was going to win this. Privately, he admitted to himself that, if anyone was going to distract him, it'd be Sam Carter. She had got that whole 'genius' thing going, after all.

"I've never tried soufflé," he remarked, casually. "I'll enjoy that."

"You'd better not be planning to barbeque," she retorted. "I've seen the cooking equipment in your kitchen, so I'm sure you can do better."

He grimaced. Busted. It was true: he could cook. It was all Sara's fault. She'd refused to be the only one responsible for family meals when he was home and perfectly capable of wielding a spatula. He still only cooked a few things, tending towards simple, filling, and involving beer in some capacity, but he prided himself on the fact that the things he did, he did well. "I guess you'll never know."

She stayed silent. When he looked her way, she was grinning slightly. "You're all talk," she said softly, adding an insubordinately late, "sir."

This was dangerous territory. A date by any other name was still as sweet – and as court-martiallable. Even if nothing happened – and nothing was going to happen, he told himself sternly – Hammond wouldn't be pleased, if he found out. But, right now, he didn't really give a damn.

"Game on, Sam."

Jack took a comfortable stance and leveled his gun at the target in front of him. Distracting though his 2IC certainly was, she hadn't seemed to grasp that Jack worked better under pressure. It made his mind come alive – every thought seemed sharper, more focused – it was the main reason for his not-so-illustrious career in Black Ops. He was confident that, no matter what she did, it would only make him focus harder on winning this competition.

He sighted down the gun, tilting his head slightly, aware but paying no attention as Sam moved closer. She was practically leaning into his side, not actually touching – shoving him as he shot would be an unsportsmanlike way of winning, and Sam didn't do unsportsmanlike. She was tall, her nose on a level with his chin, and a fleeting picture of what it would be like to have her nuzzling closer zipped through his head.

He narrowed his eyes, and took a shot. Centre. She'd have to do better than snuggling.

He refocused. Sam leaned against him, and he braced himself against her slight weight. Again, she wasn't jostling him – simply trying to ruin his shot through other means. He could smell her, now; an alluring scent made up of some sort of fresh, slightly apple-y perfume, soap, gun oil, and warm Carter skin. She smelled delicious. He could feel her breath brush his ear. She'd probably taste fantastic...

He realized he'd become distracted, and ruthlessly refocused. Two more to go. Ignoring the warm, soft, scented woman pressed into his side, he took another shot. Dead centre, closer than before. Damn, he was good.

Sam shifted slightly, and he heard the rasp of her hose. He swallowed, and refocused his aim. One shot to win. She lifted up slightly, and he braced himself mentally for a kiss on the cheek, or something along those lines – simultaneously determined to remember every sensation, and determined not to let it distract him. She leaned into his ear. Jack's finger tightened on the trigger. And she whispered three small words.

Jack fired.

Jack cursed.

His eyes had defocused momentarily when she spoke, and his gun arm had twitched. He hadn't been ready, and the shot was wide of the target by a good couple of inches. She stepped away, and he turned to glare at her.

"That wasn't fair!"

She grinned smugly. "I said I'd distract you," she countered. "You lost, fair and square."

His eyes drifted downwards speculatively. Had she been telling the truth? No, not under that shirt - but maybe she meant this evening... Then he realized that he was doing it again, dammit, and dragged his gaze up to her face. Damn, she was dangerous. Sam just looked more smug.

Well, hell. Looked like he'd be cooking dinner for her, after all.

This should be interesting.


End file.
